TWO  POEMS 


JOHN  FREEMAN 


!  EXJJBKB  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


OHN  HENRY  NASH  LIBRARY 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

PRESENTED  TO  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


ROBERT  GORDON  SPRQUL,  PRESIDENT. 


MR.ANDMRS.MILTON  S.RAV 
CECILY,  VIRGINIA ANDROSALYN  RAY 


RAY  OIL  BURNER  COMPANY 


TWO  POEMS 

BY 

JOHN  FREEMAN 


THE  RED  PATH 

<>y/  Narrative 

AND 

THE  WOUNDED  BIRD 

BY 

JOHN  FREEMAN 


CAMBRIDGE 

DUNSTER  HOUSE 

1921 


COPYRIGHT  1921   BY 
JOHN   FREEMAN 


The  Red  Path 


THE  RED  PATH 


rYING  there,  in  a  quiet  October  air, 
He  waited,  tired  of  so  long  lying  there 
For  yet  unhurrying  death;  and  as  he  waited 
The  neighbour  waited  too,  and  they  both  hated 
The  thought  of  that  slow  Shadow  moving  on  belated — 
Which  of  them  the  more  impatient  I  know  not, 
But  she,  being  woman,  less  concealed  her  thought. 

She  asked  him  once,  and  dared  not  ask  again, 
"Shall  I  send  for  your  wife?"  but  the  old  man  when 
"Your  wife!"  he  heard,  shook  his  weak  head  and  frowned 
And  cast  pale  angry  orbs  the  room  around, 
Lest  his  wife  should  be  there. 

She  never  came. 

He  died  keeping  almost  to  the  end  the  same 
Smouldering  fury,  with  quick  sparks  of  rage 
Which  the  neighbour  bore  with  as  the  whim  of  age. 
1  'Twas  strange,"  she  said,  "how  he  turned  from  his  wife 

and  sons ! 

Never  a  word  of  the  boys — fine  boys — though  once 
They  lived  together.  How  he  hated  his  wife — 
A  poor  thing  she — terrified  out  of  her  life 
If  he  swore  at  her.  Now  lying  here  he  seems 


The  Red  Path 

Small  and  gentle  as  a  child  that  sleeps  and  dreams"— 
Sole  elegist,  this  was  her  elegy. 

And  he  out  of  his  cloud  looked  mad  to  see 
His  widow  stand  unmourning  at  the  grave, 
Still  timid  as  if  she  feared  the  very  grave 
That  held  his  angry  bones.  Yes,  as  she  moved 
Away,  remembering  her  sons  beloved, 
In  his  dark  cloud  the  self-vexed  ghost  grew  mad 
To  see  what  sweetness  even  illusion  had. 

ii 

"Go,  and  go  now!"  in  his  anger  he  had  cried, 

The  harsh  hands  twitching  cruelly  at  his  side. 

Her  fingers  clasped,  her  rainy  eyes,  her  breast 

Lifting  with  sobs  in  quick  and  desperate  unrest 

Were  scorned — all  tears  and  words  alike  unheeded 

Except  he  hated  more  as  she  repleaded 

The  old  pleas.  Always  had  he  hated  her 

Since  motherhood  rubbed  away  the  little  fair 

For  which  he'd  chosen  her;  the  children's  growth 

Cost  all  her  peace,  as  their  birth  stole  her  youth. 

He  hated  them  all  three;  her  most  because 

She  was  the  gentle  thing  she  ever  was, 

But  less  the  transient  pleasing: — his  sons  then 

He  hated  since  they  shadowed  happier  men. 

They  vexed  him  with  remembrance  of  those  days 

Far  off,  and  half  unreal  to  his  gaze, 

When  he  was  happy,  and  most  when  he  had  returned 

With  nervous  step,  quick  eye,  skin  deeply  burned, 


The  Red  Path 

From  Africa,  after  voyaging  long 

The  wreckful,  typhoon-haunted  tropic  seas  among; 

Days  that  glowed  as  with  phosphorescent  lights 

Beneath  the  spawning  stars  of  southern  nights; 

Days,  when  he  had  come  to  this  sea-neighbouring  town, 

Lingered,  and  stayed — and  thirty  years  had  gone. 

There  he  had  met  her,  in  her  springtime's  flush 
That  makes  youth  lovely  till  the  shadows  brush 
Too  soon  the  brightness.  Was  it  love  had  kept 
Brief  sentry  in  his  empty  heart,  then  slept 
And  sleeping  died,  and  dying  yielded  him 
To  the  mastery  of  his  own  unmerciful  whim  ? 
If  it  was  love,  love  slept  and  sleeping  died 
Of  a  nightmare  that  pressed  snakelike  at  love's  side. . . . 

She  for  a  while  feared  not  and  was  content, 
Being  of  his  delight  the  instrument. 
But  he,  turning  his  money  to  a  little  more 
And  yet  a  little,  grew  more  nervous  than  before, 
With  angers  flashing  at  a  word  or  touch 
Amiss,  or  look  of  humbleness  too  much. 
Once  he  had  seen  her,  thinking  herself  unseen, 
Almsgiving  to  a  beggar  cunning  and  mean, 
And  snatched  her  gift,  and  drawn  her  fainting  home. 
"You  give  to  a  beggar — my  money  you  give,  give — Come! 
A  beggar  to  a  beggar — my  money — Come!" 
Her  arm  shewed  long  the  red  sting  of  his  hand, 
But  dread  and  shame  stung  deeper  than  his  hand; 
And  she,  left  to  her  household  tasks,  felt  all 
That  tyranny  rising  round  her  like  a  wall, 


The  Red  Path 

Or  a  great  chimney  with  one  small  disk  of  blue 
Above,  to  slide  its  beamy  brightness  through 
Her  spirit. 

It  was  her  boys  that  brightness  poured 
Into  the  starven  breast,  and  each  neglected  chord 
Plucked  to  a  plaintive  lovely  air  of  love 
Trembling  so  thin  her  ill-feigned  calm  above 
Her  husband  scarce  could  hear,  or  if  he  heard, 
Darkening,  the  music  muted  at  a  word. 

When  the  first  child  was  born  so  happy  was  she 
That  she  forgot  her  old  anxiety, 
Loosening  the  long  suppression  of  the  flood 
Of  mother-love  that,  swifter  than  her  blood, 
In  veins  and  nerves,  through  fingers,  eyes,  lips,  feet 
Leapt,  and  left  in  her  the  sole  painful  heat 
Of  utmost  giving.  But  her  husband  loured 
And  stung  her  again,  seeing  that  love  outpoured, 
By  him  despised — outpoured  on  his  own  son. 
Might  he  not  love  his  son — her  flesh,  his  own, 
Born  of  her  body,  bone  of  his  very  bone? 
He  might  not,  for  a  madness  in  him  ran— 
From  what  gnat-haunted,  hid  miasmic  fen 
Secretly  flown,  who  knows? — He  could  but  hate, 
As  she  could  not  but  love.  Once  as  she  sat 
Nursing  her  sick  child,  singing  a  wordless  song, 
Tenderness  quickening  the  hours  so  long, 
Suddenly  he  spoke  angered  from  the  door 
Where  unheard  he  stood  hearing:  — "I  tell  you,  no  more, 
No  more.  Put  the  child  down,  let  it  alone, 


The  Red  Path 

Let  it  die!" — Startled,  she  stooped  down, 
Clasped  the  child  and  sobbed;  while  he  looked  aching  on. 
"My  curse  on  you  both!"  he  muttered.  She  heard  no  more, 
If  more  he  said. 

Yet  another  child  she  bore, 
Begotten  of  his  hate  and  her  dumb  fear. 
Gladness  renewed  brief  spring  awhile  in  her, 
Feeling  that  young  life  drawn  by  blinded  longings  near. 
For  now  two  sons  her  despised  body  had  brought 
Into  the  sensual  world  out  of  her  womb  of  thought — 
So  blessed  she — and  so  more  hapless  when 
Sadness  renewed  long  winter's  ache  again. 

So  John  and  Robert  grew  in  that  ill  home, 
Nourished  in  love  and  terror,  light  and  gloom, 
While  she,  with  love  suppressed,  fears  unsuppressed, 
Grew  wan  and  wretched,  then  more  wretched  lest 
Her  looks  vex  him  anew,  as  vex  they  would, 
As  she  sat  at  meals,  patient,  silent,  subdued. 
Sometimes  for  weeks  he'd  leave  her — she  knew  why — 
Returning  with  new  angers  in  his  eye. 
Sometimes  at  night  he'd  lock  her  in  her  room, 
Return  next  noon  and  mocking  call,  "Come,  Come!" 
And  bid  John  to  unlock  his  mother's  door. 
Long  past  humiliation,  this  she  bore 
Complaintless.  When  her  mother  dying  lay 
She  dared  not  visit  her  save  by  stealth,  or  stay 
Longer  than  lies  might  serve ...  So  his  long  hate, 
Perverted  from  brief  love,  made  her  life  desolate. 

— And  his  too  desolate.  In  high  barren  lands 


The  Red  Path 

Wolves  howl  all  night  over  the  frozen  sands, 

And  in  that  desolation  their  long  cry 

Torments  an  unsleeping  brain  to  agony — 

Hearing  to  wild  throats  wilder  throats  reply: 

Only  that  sound  beneath  the  starry  sky. 

So  in  his  brain  the  savage  thoughts  crept  out. 

And  crying  in  his  darkness,  and  about 

The  naked  desert  of  his  spirit,  made 

Madness  of  its  own  energy  afraid. 

Time  wantoned  with  him,  pinched  his  veiny  cheek, 

Sharpened  his  nose,  and  made  his  shrill  voice  weak 

For  all  that  simmering  fury,  and  more  lean 

His  hands,  and  the  thin  body  yet  more  thin 

For  all  that  burning  fury. 

And  within 

The  lean  and  sinewy  flesh  time  made  more  stark 
The  human  spirit.  The  eternal  lamp  grew  dark, 
Passion  wove  denser  clouds  of  stifling  fume; 
Came  no  pure  wind  or  fire's  lip  to  relume 
The  fading  light.  Dark  grew  the  light  in  him, 
Only  his  reinless  sense  became  not  dim, 
Till  he  seemed  but  sense  and  anger,  nothing  more, 
Except  at  whiles  a  mortal  worm  would  bore 
(That  worm  he  knew!)  deeper  into  his  mind; 
Then  sadness  followed,  moaning  like  a  wind. 
Sadness  and  loneliness  renewed  the  sound 
Of  the  wild  wolvish  howling  all  around. 
To  evil  loneliness  new  evil  brings, 
And  sadness  to  the  neck  of  evil  clings. 

6 


The  Red  Path 
III 

Kindlier  was  time's  wantoning  with  his  boys. 
Escaped  the  house,  they  gathered  summer  joys. 
The  gloom  of  home  had  no  power  to  pursue 
Their  parting  steps — like  any  boys  they  grew. 
Like  any  boys  careless  of  love  and  pride 
Breathed  over  them  by  mother  thoughts,  and  cried 
In  whispered  timid  words  of  welcome  and  farewell. 
. . .  But  the  old  man  hated  them:  no  need  to  tell 
He  hated  them.  They  knew  it  in  his  eye. 
Words,  silence  and  perpetual  tyranny. 
They  did  not  know  what  poison  in  him  stirred, 
What  savage,  wild  pursuing  cries  he  heard; 
They  did  not  know,  and  John,  being  elder,  swore 
Many  times  he  would  bear  no  stabbing  more. 
"I'll  stay  no  longer,"  he'd  cry.  His  mother  wept 
Or  dread  with  love  fought  in  her  bosom  and  crept 
Into  her  eyes  dim  with  forbidden  tears; 
At  last,  grown  bold  with  his  long  nineteen  years, 
Without  farewell  hastening  at  dawn  away 
He  disappeared,  and  wrote  from  Canada 
Once,  and  no  more.  His  mother  could  but  pray 
For  his  return,  yet  dread  lest  he  return, 
And  the  embers  of  old  hatred  newly  burn — 
Embers  of  fire  that  leapt  when  the  old  man  heard 
That  John  had  gone  and,  to  a  fury  stirred, 
He  walked  all  night  up  and  down  and  up  and  down 
Chafing  as  a  beast  because  his  quarry  is  flown; 


The  Red  Path 

Or  stared  out  gloomy  at  the  rainy  street 
Where  emptiness  bemocked  his  senseless  feet 
Up  and  down  all  night  pacing. — While  she  lay 
Orphaned,  unhusbanded,  awaiting  hopeless  day. 
Robert  more  patient  stayed  yet;  but  he  too 
Fretted  in  the  prison  of  his  father's  view, 
And  after  much  enduring,  much  resenting. 
Tired  of  abuse,  threats  and  his  mother's  lamenting, 
Persuaded  her  that  he  might  leave  the  town 
For  London,  there  to  live  a  life  of  his  own 
And  make  a  home  for  her  too  if  need  be, 
Or  she  take  courage  also  to  be  free. 

When  the  old  man  knew  his  second  son  had  gone 
He  swore  and  foamed  and  laughed  and  swore  anon, 
Glad  that  the  boy  had  fled,  but  sick  to  feel 
The  boy  no  longer  quivering  under  his  heel; 
And  in  the  old  furious  way  his  wife  upbraided, 
As  false,  undutiful,  sullen  and  degraded — 
All  the  old  maggot's  spitefulness.  Then,  "Go, 
Go,  and  go  now!"  And  he  barked  again,  "Go  now!" 
And  she,  glad  to  be  bidden,  sick  to  obey, 
Went  trembling,  adread  to  hear  his  shouted  "Stay!' 
But  no  recall  echoed  to  her  faint  sense: 
Sorrowful,  unreluctant  passed  she  thence, 
And  glancing  timorously  half-turned  back 
She  saw  him  at  the  door,  with  aspect  black 
Stirless — because  the  maggot  in  his  brain 
Bored  a  thought  deeper,  paused,  and  bored  again. 


8 


The  Red  Path 


So  to  the  refuge  of  her  son  she  hasted, 

With  fears  all  around  her  and  no  fear  untasted; 

Till  she  reached  Robert,  the  burning  fears  subsided, 

And  slowly  resting,  from  the  past  divided, 

Quieter  her  quick  pulses  beat;  she  stirred 

No  more  with  nerve  controlless  if  she  heard 

A  sudden  noise,  no  graying  of  her  cheek 

Told  of  a  shadow,  or  thought  she  could  not  speak. 

No  word  from  the  old  man  came:  no  word  she  sent; 
All  day  over  her  needle  she  was  bent, 
While  at  a  factory  Robert  worked:  at  night 
The  tired  eyes  rested,  and  her  inward  sight, 
Clearing,  brought  back  bitterness  and  regret 
Or  for  an  hour  the  past  she  could  forget. 
Yet  always  was  she  grieved  that  no  news  came 
From  John,  far  wandering,  although  his  name 
Every  night  she  repeated  in  her  prayer 
Again  and  again  to  the  unreplying  air: 
Unanswered  went  her  letters. 

So  a  year 

Passed,  and  she  grew  perforce  content  to  fear 
And  hope.  And  then  another  trouble  fell, 
For  Robert  lost  his  work.  In  those  days  still 
Men  starved  because  their  strength  was  needed  not 
And  starving  they  devoured  their  patient  thought 
Or  bitter  thought,  and  waited  till  perchance 
Their  skill  was  needed  for  the  world's  advance.  .  .  . 


The  Red  Path 

— O  barren  Peace,  thy  bony  shade  keep  far, 

Plenitude  is  the  gift  of  full-girthed  War. 

Not  now  men  famish,  but  each  day  work  and  thrive, 

And  children  eat,  whom  Peace  would  not  let  live. — 

Robert,  a  silent  lad,  grew  silent  more 

Since  so  superfluous,  and  was  heart-sore 

That  youth  and  strength  and  skill  should  be  despised: 

And  so,  thus  inly  sick,  his  mother  surprized 

By  saying  suddenly,  he'd  return  home, 

And  see  if  better  fortune  there  might  come. 

"Write  to  your  father  first,"  she  urged,  "Write  first, 

Or  maybe" ...  He  broke  in,  "This  is  the  worst! 

To  starve  here  is  the  worst,  and  starve  you  too. 

Anything  were  better — yes,  I'd  rather  do 

Anything,  than  stay  here  to  shiver  and  beg, 

And  slink  about,  a  lean  avoided  rag. 

No,  I'll  not  write  but  go."  And  so  he  started 

On  his  long  walk,  intent  and  sober-hearted, 

Through  Hertford,  Kitchen,  Huntingdon,  Peterbro', 

Past  the  great  fens,  diverging  to  and  fro 

At  any  rumour  of  luck;  turning  again 

Weary  with  February  wind  and  rain 

Northward;  by  casual  tasks  half-charity, 

Half-slavery,  sustained. — Till  he  could  see 

The  smoking  native  town,  black  edging  woods, 

And  in  the  east  the  suburb's  slaty  clouds. 

In  the  low  western  ward  the  old  home  lay, 
A  small  house  of  chill  stone,  leafless  and  gray, 
With  a  narrow  garden  of  dwarf 'd  fruitless  trees 

10 


The  Red  Path 

And  one  long  red-tiled  path.  With  ill-worn  ease 
He  knocked.  His  father  opened  and  out-peered, 
Searching  his  son's  face.  "Is  it  you?  O,  I  feared 
One  day  you  would  come  back,  and  now  youVe  come. 
Speak,  boy.  What  do  you  want?  Speak,  are  ye  dumb? 
Dumb  and  a  beggar,  hey?  Come  in,  my  dear, 
Be  pleased  to  be  seated.  Take  my  seat,  sit  here  . . . 
Fll  stand,  walk,  kneel,  because  my  son's  returned: 
Nobody  knows  how  I've  sat  alone,  and  mourned, 
And  now  he's  returned — to  beg.  Sit  still,  sit  still 
And  beg."  The  old  man  gabbled  in  his  shrill 
Indistinct  fury,  and  Robert  could  not  speak 
Until  his  father  paused;  and  then  was  sick 
With  sadness.  But  at  last,  "I'm  sorry  I'm  here," 
He  answered  slowly,  "but  you  need  not  fear. 
I'd  thought  perhaps,  father — " 

"You  thought,  you  thought! 
Of  course — the  things  your  pious  mother  taught. 
I  know!  You're  to  get  round  me  with  your  cant — 
Hardships,  homesickness;  but  I  know  what  you  want. 
John  was  the  first,  then  you  went  and  your  mother; 
Now  you're  back,  then  she'll  come,  and  soon  your  brother, 
And  live  like  lords  here,  thinking  I'll  keep  you  all: 
You'll  sit,  and  I'm  to  run  whenever  you  call 
And  give  you  what  you  please." 

"That  isn't  true, 

You  know  it's  not.  I'll  take  nothing  from  you 
Now,  though  I  never  break  bread  again."  So  much 
The  neighbour  heard  through  the  open  door.  A  touch 

II 


The  Red  Path 

Or  a  wind  shut  it,  and  no  more  she  heard 

As  her  retreating  steps  the  stiff  grass  stirred 

And  crossed  the  path.  "Robert's  come  back  next  door," 

She  cried.  "Poor  lad,  he'll  not  come  back  any  more — 

Such  a  storm  has  the  old  man  raised — he's  mad,  he's  mad, 

He  must  be  mad!" — As  if  none  were  bad 

And  none  else  raged  tormenting  and  tormented 

But  madmen. 

V 

"If  things  go  wrong,  then  I'll  not  write,"  he'd  said 
Kissing  his  mother  good-bye.  She  shook  her  head. 
"O,  but  I'll  write  when  things  go  well,  but  why 
Speak  if  they  don't?"  She  answered  with  a  sigh. 

She  waited:  all  her  life  was  lost  in  waiting, 
And  disappointed  patience  unabating. 
But  even  that  last  stony  refuge  failed; 
Face  to  face  with  midnight  thoughts  her  spirit  quailed, 
And  with  sick  mind  she  wrote  to  Robert,  pleading 
For  a  little  news  with  gentle  sad  upbraiding: 
"For,"  said  she,  "it's  too  too  lonely  now  you're  gone, 
And  I've  but  thoughts  of  you  to  feed  upon — " 
And  sent  the  letter  home,  for  there,  maybe 
Robert  might  shelter  yet.  And  she  could  see 
The  silent  boy  in  each  familiar  room 
Darkened  at  mid-day  with  the  sudden  gloom 
Of  her  feared  husband.  "If  but  for  a  little  while, 
Dear  Lord,  let  Thy  kind  light  on  Robert  smile, 
Even  through  that  gloom  ...  for  a  little  while, dear  Lord," 
She  prayed:  and  many  a  muted  prayer  outpoured. 

I  2 


The  Red  Path 

From  Robert  came  no  answer,  and  a  week 

Passed  . . .  then  a  letter  flushed  her  cheek, 

In  the  old  man's  nervous  hand.  "You  need  not  write, 

He's  at  rest  now,  don't  worry."  And  all  night 

She  anguished,  seeing  in  the  void  the  very  face 

She  sought — sad,  unintelligent,  adaze. 

Morn  brought  no  brightness.  While  her  needle  flew 

Threading  the  air  with  light,  her  worn  mind  knew 

No  task  but  to  stab  itself  with  terror  through, 

Pluck  the  barb,  and  stab  again.  At  length  distraught 

She  sent  to  the  neighbour,  but  dared  not  hint  her  thought. 

— What  joy  in  the  answer  Yes,  Robert  had  gone  there, 

Quarrelled,  and  gone  again,  nobody  knew  where. 

But  a  few  days  since,  voices  were  guessed  once  more 

Angry;  they'd  heard  the  old  man  shut  the  door, 

And  from  the  casement  in  late  twilight  seen 

The  poor  lad  turn  again,  disappearing  in 

The  dark  of  the  trees  at  the  garden's  edge. 

She  read, 
Smiled,  and  dreamed  all  night  upon  a  happier  bed. 

And  happy  she  mistaken,  since  she  slept 
And  a  false  image  of  the  beloved  boy  kept, 
Seeing  him  moving  in  the  world  of  sense: 
Evil  was  robbed  awhile  of  its  influence, 
And  touched  her  not.  She  knew  not  it  was  John 
That  broke  the  old  man's  silence,  then  was  gone — 
Not  Robert,  who  would  break  no  silence  more  . . . 
Happier  mistaken ! 

John  had  knocked  at  the  door 


The  Red  Path 

Twice,  then  his  father  opened,  looked  and  shivered. 
Cowering  and  white:  the  smoking  candle  quivered 
In  his  infirm  hand.  "Don't  you  see  father — it's  John, 
I've  come  back!"  The  old  man  rested  his  eyes  upon 
The  undreamed-of  face.  "I  thought  'twas  Robert  again/' 
And  held  the  door  with  his  foot,  till  he  saw  plain 
It  was  not  Robert.  "What  do  you  want?"  he  gasped, 
His  eyes  and  voice  recovered,  his  knuckles  clasped 
Round  the  candlestick.  "Can't  I  come  in  awhile?" 
The  old  man  moved  a  little,  then  stood  still, 
Murmuring,  "Not  Robert?  Go  away!"  John  stepped  by, 
Sat  down,  and  stared  at  his  father  hopelessly. 
"I've  come  three  thousand  miles.  I've  worked  across  . . . 
Better  to  have  stayed — little  would  be  the  loss 
With  this  for  welcome."  The  old  man  glowered  unspeaking. 
On  a  loose  hinge  the  door  moved  slowly  creaking, 
All  else  listened.  "Where  are  mother  and  Robert  now? 
I  know  they've  left  and  are  living  God  knows  how: 
Tell  me  where,  and  I'll  go."  "I'll  tell  you  nothing,  go! 
You  come  with  Robert's  knock  and  speaking  so — 
Just  as  he  speaks;  but  you're  not  Robert — go,  go!" 
His  voice  rose  high,  his  blind  hands  thrust,  he  clutched 
The  door,  steadied  himself  anon,  then  touched, 
Shaking  uncertainly,  John's  shoulder.  "Go, 
Go  where  they've  gone;  I'll  tell  you  nothing.  Go!" 

And  so  John  went  miserable  away, 
Left  the  town,  and  at  the  river  port  next  day 
Meeting  a  shipmate  joined  him  again  and  sailed 
At  evening. 

14 


The  Red  Path 

:  -  ..        VI  ;,>..  V, ,;.':"    .  • 

The  old  man  drew  the  bolt  again  and  faltered 

To  his  tall  chair;  and  now  his  face  was  altered, 

And  tears  flowed.  "Robert — not  Robert?  O,  my  son!" 

Again  and  again;  and,  "Robert,  what  was  done, 

What  was  done  to  you  that  night?  You  came  indeed 

That  night:  where  are  you  now?  I  heard  you  plead 

For  something: — where  are  you,  why  do  you  ask  nothing 

now?"— 

Again  and  again,  head  bent,  voice  fallen  low 
. . .  Till  repetition  died.  The  candle  guttered, 
And  he  rose  and  lit  another,  and  then  muttered, 
"I'm  coming,  coming  Robert!"  opening  the  door. 
The  trees  and  the  rising  moon  hung  bright  before. 
He  carried  the  tall  chair  out  and  set  it  down 
In  the  middle  of  the  path.  The  rising  moon 
Made  all  so  plain  that  he  fetched  a  folding  screen. 
There  then  he  sat,  save  by  the  moon  unseen 
And  that  clear  Eye  that  travels  through  the  night 
Of  time  and  space  and  sees  the  dark  all  bright. 
Bending  low  he  tap-tapped  on  the  tiles,  "I  am  here! 
Robert,  Robert,  Robert,  Robert  can  you  hear?" 
And  at  the  interstices  of  mould  would  peer 
And  lift  with  shaking  finger  a  tile  or  two, 
Whispering,  "I  am  here,  Robert,  where  are  you?" — 
Caressing  the  cold  earth,  then  gently  pressing 
The  earth  back  lest  it  weary  of  caressing. 
"Who  was  it,  Robert,  when  you  came  that  day, 


The  Red  Path 

Who  was  it  you  spoke  to?  Who  would  drive  you  away? 
Why  did  you  come,  and  never  come  again  ? 
O,  had  you  come  not,  had  you  come  not  then ! 
Whose  hand  was't  struck  you,  Robert,  tell  me  whose? 
Why  did  you  cry  out,  that  I  could  not  choose 
But  hear?  Why  had  you  turned  your  back  to  me? 
It  was  your  face  I  feared — didn't  you  see? 
Why  did  you  cry,  'Father,  O  Father'?  Why 
Don't  you  answer  now,  'Father,  here  am  F? 

"But  I  know  how  it  was  done.  How  should  such  power 
Be  in  so  weak  a  hand  at  such  an  hour? 
It  was  not  my  hand,  for  my  hand  is  too  weak. 
Look,  Robert,  at  my  hand.  Look,  can't  you  speak 
But  once  now, — 'Father,  here  am  I'?" 

No  word 

With  charmed  deceitful  ear  the  old  man  heard, 
But  sat  on,  lightly  touching  the  dark  mould, 
Insensible  of  the  hour  and  the  air's  cold; 
Until  he  coughed  and  coughed,  and  at  length  stood, 
Stamped  the  tiles  firm,  and  slowly  in  that  flood 
Of  dead  light  crawled  back  to  the  house  and  slept. 

And  night  by  night  along  the  path  he  crept, 
For  night  by  night  the  maggot  in  his  brain 
Bored  a  thought  deeper,  paused,  and  bored  again. 

But  not  unseen  be  sat.  For  neighbours  watched, 
Pitied,  and  then  a  pitying  pleasure  snatched 
Seeing  him  sitting  there,  screened  yet  unscreened 
From  laughter.  Out  of  the  topmost  window  leaned 
They  might  see  just  his  bald  head  bent,  or  drooped 

16 


The  Red  Path 

It  seemed  on  his  knees;  as  if  he  groped  and  groped — 
Gathering  moonbeams.  "Or  maybe  it  is  there 
His  money's  buried:  perhaps  he  can't  think  where 
It's  buried;  perhaps  he  hides  it  and  finds  and  hides. 
He  was  always  mad,  and  bad  and  cunning  besides. 
There  he  is  now.  He'll  sit  so  hour  after  hour, 
Night  after  night,  in  moonshine,  starshine,  shower . . . 
Now  let's  to  bed." 

But  he  stayed,  burned  and  froze 
And  trembled;  and  at  last,  coughing,  uprose. 
Then  would  he  go  back  to  the  silent  house 
Where  every  step  must  bitter  echoes  rouse, 
And  every  silence  thoughts  more  bitter  than 
Even  echoes  of  lost  voices  to  a  lost  lonely  man. 
But  with  the  dawn  the  angry  humour  woke: 
Seven  waiting  devils  entered  in  and  broke 
The  loneliness,  as  though  to  them  was  given 
Each  day  his  soul  new  plucked  from  sorrow's  heaven. 

But  age  was  kind  at  length.  After  a  night 
When  storm  had  drenched  the  earth  and  made  the  light 
Of  morning  wan  and  strange,  he  was  found  prone 
Across  the  doorway,  lying  there  alone 
No  one  knew  how  long;  lying  yet  alive. 
They  raised  him, — so!  Mixed  in  his  brain  did  strive 
Sadness  and  madness  yet,  together  enlocking 
And  parting;  still  the  old  abuse  and  mocking, 
And  words  at  times  of  tenderness  profounder 
Than  madness  speaks.  The  neighbour  filled  with  wonder, 
Hearing  in  the  reworded  curse  entangled 

17 


The  Red  Path 

"Robert,  Robert,  where  are  you?"  till  the  voice  was 

strangled 

In  sobs,  and  then  the  restless  whisper  again, 
As  it  were  an  echo  bubbling  in  his  brain. 
Then  he  grew  quiet  a  little  and  would  say, 
Looking  around  apprehensively,  "Stay,  stay, 
Don't  leave  me  alone,  don't  let  them  take  me  away. 
Soon  I'll  be  well.  Don't  leave  me,  or  she'll  come 
And  curse  me  with  herself  and  bring  them  home." 
He  darkened  with  the  thought.  "Don't  leave  me  alone, 
Get  some  one  who  will  stay  when  you  are  gone. 
I'll  pay  you,  for  I've  money,  money,  d'you  hear? 
I'll  pay.  I'll  soon  be  well — what  is  there  to  fear? 
There's  money,  money!"  So  he  gibed  and  coughed 
Till,  weakening,  his  wild  voice  grew  soft, 
And,  "Robert,  Robert!"  whispering,  he  would  sleep 
Uneasy,  awakening  at  any  step, 
Angry,  or  crying  pitifully.  A  week 
Another  week,  and  he  forbore  to  speak, 
And  other  weeks.  Slowly  he  wore  away 
And,  strangely  gentled,  died  one  late  October  day. 

VII 

O,  brief  the  sweetness  that  illusion  had 
For  her  who  turning  from  that  grave  was  sad 
To  tears,  waiting,  waiting,  still  in  vain 
For  her  beloved  son  to  return  again. 

Back  to  the  tragic  house  she  could  not  go: 
It  must  be  sold  since  she  hated  it  so. 

18 


The  Red  Path 

She  then,  alone,  to  London  hastened,  turning 

The  past  over  and  over  in  her  mind  and  yearning 

Almost  for  the  familiar  hell,  if  they 

Might  sweeten  hell  with  one  communing  day. 

Again  her  needle  threaded  its  aery  dance, 

At  night  again  her  unrewarded  glance 

From  clock  to  door  flew;  wearied  was  her  ear 

With  the  deceit  of  steps  that  sounded  but  came  never  near. 

So  the  forsaken  house  was  sold  and  stripped, 
Trees  were  lopped,  creepers  cut.  The  silence  slipped 
Back  into  the  greater  silence.  Strange  feet  trod 
The  long-neglected  rooms.  A  woi^cman  stood 
One  day  and  looked  from  the  garden's  edge,  and  cried — 
"Yes,  I  remember!  It's  the  old  man  that  died 
I  worked  for  years  and  years  ago.  I  slated 
Half  the  roof  again  when  the  great  storm  had  abated. . . . 
I  remember!" — and  walked  up  to  the  house  and  stared 
At  ceilings,  walls,  floors,  casements  unrepaired. 
Going  each  day  to  and  fro  he  was  vexed  to  see 
How  the  red  tiles  of  the  path  unevenly 
Lay,  for  a  space,  sunken  and  damp;  'twas  odd, 
Twas  odd,  he  mused,  whenever  his  footsteps  trod 
The  path.  "I  set  them,  bedded  on  decent  rubble — 
Well  I  remember  now — sparing  no  trouble. 
I  thought  'twas  honest  work.  The  tiles  were  sound, 
And  I  set  them  all."  At  length,  because  it  irked 
His  pride  to  see  how  slackly  he  had  worked, 
Though  twenty  years  ago,  one  eve  he  stayed 
To  repair  the  fault  and  lift  the  tiles  ill-laid, 


The  Red  Path 

Then  setting  them  anew.  The  watching  neighbour 
Smiled  to  see  such  uncontracted  labour. 
"It's  where  the  old  man  sat,  night  after  night. 
We  used  to  laugh,  it  was  such  a  funny  sight . . . 
Why  should  you  trouble?"  He  smiled  back  and  lifted 
Tile  by  tile,  turning  them  aside,  and  sifted 
Surprized  the  soft  mould:  and  thrusting  lower  found 
Sad  human  fragments  mixing  in  the  ground. 
He  called:  "For  God's  sake  come!  look,  look  at  that!'3 
"Why  it's  horrible — It's  where  the  old  man  sat 
Night  after  night.  I  told  you  he  sat  there. 
But  I  never  thought . . .  O,  I  can't  come  near, — 
Show  me.  How  could  he  do  it,  and  he  so  small? 
He  can't  have  done  it.  They  were  both  too  tall. 
Which  one  is  it?  Why,  I  was  with  him  when  he  died. 
He  went  so  quiet  I  could  almost  have  cried; 
And  to  think  I  nursed  him!"  So  she  rambled  on 
Happy  in  rich  horrors  to  sup  upon, 
Like  kings  on  dainties  fetched  by  famished  slaves 
From  tributary  islands  over  tributary  waves. 

VIII 

Even  pain  is  mortal;  though  dying  and  born  anew, 
Yet  dying  again,  and  buried  where  no  yew 
Laments  with  changing  green  and  gold  and  red. . . . 
Pain  dies,  pain  dies!  The  widow  drooped  her  head, 
Hurt  even  to  death  in  the  death  of  her  son. 
Who  shall  tell  her  thought?  for  thought  itself  was  one 
With  agony,  inseparable.  But  days 

20 


The  Red  Path 

Treading  on  days  pressed  smoother  the  harsh  ways 

She  needs  must  pass  in  loneliness;  her  tears 

Fell,  but  soured  not  the  unevadable  years. 

Love  pierced  his  dust  with  deeper  roots;  she  heard 

His  voice  in  the  soft  grasses  as  they  stirred 

With  the  wet  south  winds,  and  saw  his  hazel  eyes 

In  the  clear  colour  of  late-unclouding  skies. 

And  then  John,  when  the  unhappy  news  was  tost 

Abroad  of  Robert's  murder,  once  more  crossed 

The  Atlantic,  and  his  mother  found;  and  grief 

With  wild  grief  mingling,  each  to  the  other  brought  relief. 


The  Wounded  Bird 


THE  WOUNDED  BIRD 


"RANGE  was  that  dream.  If  it  was  more  than  dream 
I  cannot  tell. 

Under  a  roof  of  stars, 
Tamarisk  wove  another  thicket  roof 
With  hawthorns  whose  late  lingering  rank  perfume 
Still  clung  the  air.  Flowers  slept  within  the  grass, 
And  in  the  meadow  near  I  stirred  the  sorrel 
Dew'd  in  the  evening  hour:  the  dew  was  bright 
In  the  swung  lantern's  smoky  ray.  Within 
The  tamarisk  thicket  the  grass  sunk  saucer-like, 
Longest  and  wettest  where  the  saucer  dipped. 
Music,  and  that  rank  hawthorn  must,  had  drawn 
My  wandering  feet  and,  as  I  neared,  the  light 
Slipping  from  my  hand  was  dowsed  in  unheard  ripple 
Of  meadow  water.  So  I  stood  unseen, 
At  first  unseeing,  but  all  ear  the  while 
Thin  music  wove  its  bindweed  round  my  sense, 
Holding  me  tranced  until  beneath  the  lids 
Sight  waked,  and  pierced  the  impleached  gloom.  And  first 
I  looked  whence  music  came  and  saw  against 
A  hawthorn  bough,  bending  and  brooding  over 
A  hidden  fiddle,  out  of  whose  womb  he  drew 
Ravishment  with  each  glide  upon  the  strings, 

25 


The  Wounded  Bird 

A  green-garbed  figure,  twenty  inches  high 
As  he  crouched  there,  dream-wrapt  unheeding  dwarf. 
Nor  was  that  fiddling  all;  for  next  I  heard 
Threading  the  gossamer  lines  that  music  hung 
And  shook  between  the  stars  and  starry  grass, 
Skipping  of  many  feet,  now  quick,  now  slow, 
Anon  heavy-heeled,  then  tapping  of  light  toe. 

There  in  the  dusky  light  of  stars  and  dew 
Were  two  bright  dancers,  and  around  them  stept, 
First  as  I  looked,  pigeons  and  eroding  doves 
That  flapped  their  wings,  rose,  fluttered,  sank,  stept  again 
Thridding  the  changing  paces  of  those  dancing 
Who  moved  as  music  or  their  silent  thoughts 
(Another  music)  bade,  and  dizzied  slowly 
Up  from  the  long  wet  grass  to  the  circle's  brink, 
Then  stood  half-faint  by  low-drooped  feather-boughs 
And  watched  in  turn  the  pigeons  and  pale  doves 
Still  curvetting.  Clothed  were  the  resting  dancers 
In  sober  green  like  that  their  fellow  dwarf 
Showed  as  his  yet  untiring  shoulder  swayed 
Over  the  fiddle;  all  ageless  and  all  ancient 
As  grass  and  rock  and  water  seemed  the  three, 
And  flushed  the  dancers'  cheeks,  and  their  brown  eyes 
Were  dancing  yet  though  limbs  were  faint  and  slack 
As  hand  in  hand,  fast  breathing,  stood  they  following 
With  quick-flashed  glance  the  fiddle  and  fluttered  birds. 
And  now  it  seemed  the  echoing  air's  self  danced 
Quivering  in  the  dewlight  as  in  noon's  fresh  heat: 

26 


The  Wounded  Bird 

The  thin  sound  circling  up  and  passing  into 

A  cry  that  seemed  not  joy's  nor  sorrow's  only 

But  each,  then  neither — both  transcending,  rising 

Purely  beyond  the  last  peak  of  mortal  sense 

That  gleams  in  white  lone  converse  with  deep  heavens. 

Half  thankful  was  I  when  the  music  fell 

On  altered  circuits  into  lower  zones 

Where  I  might  listen  only  with  my  ear 

And  turn  new  eyes  (which  in  that  climbing  shut) 

Again  upon  the  green  and  fay-like  shapes. 

— But  sank  at  last  that  music  to  a  sob 

Among  her  lowest  tones,  as  grieving  for 

Old  loss  or  loss  to  come.  Lower  he  leaned, 

And  gray  hairs  fell  over  his  bended  forehead 

While  yet  that  plaintive  note  prolonged. 

How  harsh 

That  strange  step  was,  without  the  tamarisk  bower 
What  hand  was  there?  The  startled  birds  rose  high, 
And  a  shot  sounded  hollow  and  close.  Then  all 
The  agitated  wings  and  voices  flew 
Away,  dancers  and  fiddler  all  withdrew 
Unseen;  distressed,  I  stumbled  amid  the  dew. 

Comes  back  my  broken  dream  . . .  June's  clear  light  now 
Was  in  the  sky  and  creeping  over  hedges 
As  I  walked  sleep  refreshed.  Last  eve's  wheel-tracks 
Ran  unerased:  no  foot  nor  wheel  was  heard, 
No  bleat  of  flock  nor  hoarse-throat  drover's  cry. 
But  I  thought  of  the  dancers  and  the  fiddler 

27 


The  Wounded  Bird 

And  doves  and  pigeons;  wondering.  Had  I  dreamed? 
When  near  above  came  pigeons  in  a  cloud 
Flying  and  halting  and  returning  and  flying 
Onward  again,  with  one  that  scarce  could  fly. 
A  minute's  span  she'd  plough  her  painful  way 
As  through  a  denser  element  than  thin  air, 
And  faltering,  sink;  while  round  her,  busy  vans 
Beat  as  they'd  force  the  weak  void  to  sustain  her; 
And  she  would  rise  again  and  flutter  and  stagger, 
Flutter  and  stagger  again,  and  again  sink  low. 
Last  time  their  hasty  wings  availed  no  more. 
Into  the  grassy  roadside  ditch  she  fell, 
Few  hundred  yards  away. 

Quickened  I  walked; 

But  all  those  anxious  wings  before  I  neared 
Rose,  as  two  children  from  the  bridle-path, 
Frieze-clad,  ran  to  the  wounded  bird.  They  stooped, 
And  then  the  elder  struck  her,  and  she  shrilled 
When  his  foot  scattered  stones  at  her  white  breast. 
"Stop"  I  yet  distant  cried;  but  the  boy  cared  not 
Lifting  a  broken  bough  to  strike  the  bird. 
It  seemed  she  waxed  then  strangely  tall,  to  height 
Of  the  dwarfed  dancers,  flapping  her  healthy  wing 
Against  the  boy's  limbs  though  he  cried  and  still 
Flogged  the  bird  with  his  rotten  twig  until  it  snapped. 
By  this  I  reached  and  caught  the  boy  away, 
Who  scowled,  his  fat,  round,  red  face  blubbered  with  tears, 
And  then,  with  an  angry  sob,  his  sister  dragging 
After  him,  shuffled  away. 

28 


The  Wounded  Bird 

Large  yet,  with  more 

Than  heron's  height,  the  ruffled  faint  bird  stood 
And,  moving  on  slowly,  spattered  the  dust  with  blood. 

I  with  like  weak  step  walked.  If  now  I  smile, 
Seeing  myself  beside  that  painful  bird 
Slow-paced,  I  smiled  not  then.  Behind  the  breast 
Under  the  whitest  wing  the  down  was  crimson 
With  blood  that  still  oozed,  richly  wasting,  staining 
All  one  side  to  the  pink,  dust-feathered  feet. 
Now  in  her  throat  new  sound  of  measured  bubbling 
Began,  like  the  beginnings  of  babes'  speech, 
Till  I  distinguished  the  as  yet  all  unmeaning 
Syllables.  Then  I  said,  "How  far  away 
Is  your  nest  hung,  for  what  safe  woodland's  breast 
Seeks  your  torn  breast?" 

The  bird  then  answered,  "There, 
In  the  scant  spinney  beyond  the  gathered  elms — 
Could  I  but  reach  it — but  I  thirst,  I  thirst." 
Her  words  were  thick,  but  pity  gave  me  wit. 
Then  saw  I  where  a  runnelet  damped  the  road 
And  by  the  side  glinted  a  cressy  pool 
With  flowerless  mint  above. — "Here  may  you  drink!" 
Eager  her  beak  plunged  into  the  cold  trench, 
And  sipping  long  it  seemed  her  body  shrank, 
Smaller  her  wings  grew,  and  a  white  pigeon  now 
With  clotted  blood  smearing  her  stiffened  quills, 
Was  all  I  saw  before  she  rose  in  the  air 
And  slowly  flapped  towards  her  wanted  nest. 

29 


The  Wounded  Bird 

Then  I  turned  back,  following  the  spattered  blood, 

Thinking  of  her  and  of  her  dancing  kin, 

For  kin  they  were,  and  of  all  cruelty 

Spilt  on  the  earth;  and  where  the  blood-spots  failed 

(The  rotted  twig  I  snapped  again)  I  turned 

Down  a  steep  path  to  seek  the  tamarisk  bower, 

But  woke — all  dark — and  heard  the  sounding  hour. 

Such  was  the  dream.  If  it  was  more  than  dream, 
Shadow  of  approaching  wrong,  image  of  ill 
That  wounds  the  eternal  beauty  of  the  world, 
I  cannot  tell. 


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